Title: SCOTTISH TALES
Author: Liam Leddy
Company: Home

“TICKET”  TALES

                    Written by Liam Leddy (tel.01698  305846)

TICKET PRICE 

"If ye're gonnae get intae this "scrammel" ye better be able tae fight. That big bastart Bell thinks he kin but we'll do him."

Tommy Lassiter turned to see two identical faces staring cooly back at him. He was ten years old and although he'd never seen either of these two before knew, with the certainty that children have, that he'd just met kindred spirits. Late fifties Drumchapel, the Glasgow housing estate where he lived with his parents and two older brothers and sisters,was a perfect place for most people to bring up children then. The Glasgow overspill of population had produced these housing schemes and they had not yet developed the their reputations for violence and gang warfare which developed later.

The identical twins grinning at Lassiter were identically dressed in white tee shirts and black jeans, and with their curly black hair and faces tanned by the long hot summer they were having, looked vaguely Italian.

"That shit's fur weans," grunted Lassiter, nevertheless turning back round for the expected appearance of the bride and her father who would enter the waiting car, wind down the window, and scatter a collection of pennies, threepenny bits, tanners and the odd shilling, two-bob bit or half-crown to the jostling, expectant children outside.

Minutes later Tommy and his new found friends emerged from the melee with fag money and money for something else. They also left behind a boy called Bell who had a broken nose and blood streaming from his mouth which the twins had taken turns at kicking. After they bought the cigarettes the twins introduced themselves as Billy and Drew Wilson and suggested to Lassiter that they go for the other very important thing he discovered that day. At the local football pitches Billy spoke to an older relative who produced a large green bottle from his inside jacket pocket. Lassiter was still very naive and assumed it was lemanade or "ginger", which was the collective noun for all soft drinks. From the moment he tasted the cheap wine he loved it. But that was only the rich brown taste. It was the effect of the alcohol that he really enjoyed. All of a sudden he was invincible. He knew it. All three were on their way.

For the next twenty years they were close and went through the Glasgow gang scene together and loved every minute of it. They prided themselves that they were hard men, not "liberty takers" the common expression for those who used unnecessary violence. They shared many experiences good and bad and but as they got older the violent lives they led became more of a necessary requirement for their lifestyle than the excitement they once craved.

The twins were absolutely, physically identical but Lassiter could tell them apart. Billy was violent but Drew's violence bordered on sadism. He had a mad look in his eyes which wasn't in Billy's. Eventually he did kill someone and went to prison on the reduced charge of culpable homicide. Billy went straight and Tommy Lassiter went to Manchester.

Lassiter did alright for himself in Manchester and ended up owning two clubs. He was too busy making money to think much about his old pals but on one of his very rare breaks from the clubs decided to put some of his club contacts to work to trace his old pals. After all Drew should be out of prison now and all three could get together for a drink and a chat about how well Tommy was doing.

The phone rang in his luxury flat on the second night of his fortnight's break.

"Good Evening, Mr. Lassiter. My name's Penny and I work at the Gemini club in Glasgow. My boss Mr. Ring asked me to call you on his behalf as he has been laid up in bed for a couple of days with a heavy cold. He's managed to trace the two gentlemen you have been enquiring about and if you let him know the time of your arrival in Glasgow he would be only too pleased to meet you and take you to them. Everybody at the club's been told that this is to be a big surprise for them and not to breathe a word. I love surprises too"

Lassiter chuckled, thanked her and after making the necessary arrangements put the phone down.

Tommy had told the very nice girl at the club that he didn't need anyone to meet him from the train as he still knew Glasow like the back of his hand and the West End in particular.

He strolled into the Gemini club about four-thirty in the afternoon admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror in the foyer. Impeccably dressed as always in his hand made suit, Barker shoes and vicuna coat draped over his arm. The top man was back home he thought as Ring introduced himself and the pretty girl who'd phoned him. She turned out to be his daughter.

The one remarkable thing about Ring was that he wasn't remarkable. Tall, almost bald and with thick bi-focal glasses. After introductions and pleasantries Ring explained that the Wilson twins were still in business in Glasgow and as they paid him a monthly visit anyway he had simply asked them to make it a week earlier than normal. After a few drinks expertly served by the lovely Penny Ring suggested that Lassiter secrete himself in the gent's as the surprise was about to be sprung on his two old friends who were due any minute. Again admiring himself in the mirror Tommy thought "monthly visits eh? Obviosly still up to their old tricks. Nothing changes wi' those two bastards. Might be money in this for me."

Lassiter opened the door with a flourish and almost collapsed with the shock. The Wilson twins stood there but they were no longer identical and were surrounded by four very scary, very professional career gangsters. One of the  twins had a huge, livid scar across his throat and the other had no right arm.

Ring stood up and removed his heavy glasses. He spoke, and gone was the polite Kelvinside accent ,  only  to be replaced with one that was pure Drumchapel.

"Look fuckin' scared, daen't they? Ah hid tae cut Drew's erm aff fur killin' ma wee brither, an' Billy aye hid a big fuckin' mooth ,so ah shut it fur him.

‘’Whit dae ah want wi you? Well ye ran aboot wi' them fur years but it's nuthin' tae dae wi' that. Ah rememberr you fur sumthin' else, Lassiter, ya bastirt. You broke ma nose an' burst ma mooth when ah wis only a wean at a church scrammel. Ma real name's Bell ya stupit fucker an' Ah thought even an eejit like you widnae walk intae ma  wee trap. Ah gave ye enough clues for fuck's sake. “Ring” fur Bell an' ma daughter's name “PENNY” which is a' ye left me wi' that day. Ah even named wan ae ma clubs efter thae two tossers. Star sign Gemini? Twins? Ya fuckin' clown. Noo, whit will ah dae wi' ye. See ah needed thae two as a wee reminder tae people no' tae try anythin' smart wi' me. But ah don't need you fur fuck all. You're a  fuckin’ naebuddy!’’

Bell stared insanely at Lassiter.

"If ye're gonnae get intae a scrammel wi this lot Ah sincerely hope ye kin fight."

The laughter was insane.

BE PREPARED

They'd promised to get him and he knew they meant it. All his life people had been tracking him down for something or other. His shrink had told him if now and again he would try and co-operate with people instead of living his life on a collision course, he would have an easier time of it. Sometimes he thought that life wouldn't be worth living if he didn't have someone trying to take it. It gave him a buzz. The phone rang. It was George, the barman from the "Lord Nelson".

"Four of them. Three big ugly bastards and one evil looking little sod. Said they'd be back tonight."

"Thanks George. I owe you one....."
                                                            
                                                        ************************
                                                            He looked in each shop doorway as he passed. Be prepared. If he ever.went down it wouldn't be through carelessness. He'd never lost yet and it was all down to planning. The long leather coat concealed the sawn-off shotgun. His willingness to use it was well known.

He sauntered into the bar and heard the loud Glasgow accents from the four men at the bar. George had described them well. They looked dangerous. But he was dangerous. He wondered if they knew how much.

The small one motioned for the other three to stay where they  were and swaggered towards him.

Jack knew that swagger. His father had walked exactly the same way. Something to do with the sixties. There was something familiar about the short hair and the hard, piercing eyes. "Heard ye upset a friend o' mine, son. He's no' too happy aboot it an' thinks ye need a wee lesson in manners. Let's sit doon an' talk and don't get ambitious.’’

The bar was empty except for these four, himself and George. George looked very nervous as he cleaned glasses. Donovan knew the bar had probably been busy until these four arrived.

They sat facing each other. Donovan made sure to sit with all four in full view.

"Ah know a lot o' faces aboot here, son, and did some work for Telfer an' his brothers in the sixties. They wanted tae sort ye oot themselves but they listen tae me."

Donovan said nothing and stared at the fifty year old face across from him trying to think why he looked familiar. Something from his past. Something to do with his father. He concentrated hard on the face opposite. He was the main man. The other were irrelevent. He ran the show. That much was obvious. He gave him his usual menacing smile.

Suddenly the older man's face lit up in a friendly grin.

"Yir faither' in ye son. Ah'm yir maw's brother, Ecky Fraser."

Suddenly it all came flashing back. His mother and father had told him about relatives in Glasgow when was young. He seemed to remember a visit from this man when times had been good before the car bomb explosion that had killed them both instantly. After that his life had been a procession of institutions and prisons. He'd learned early on how to look after himself and be prepared for most things to go wrong.

"Prove it."

The older man pushed a faded old coloured polaroid across the table.

"Recognize anybody?"

Donovan stared hard at the photograph. Thirty years younger, but every bit as menacing looking, the same man stared back at him, his mother and father smiling broadly, their arms about his shoulders. Could this really be true? Did he really have family?

"George gie ma nephew another drink an' wan fur yirsel’."

He waved the other three younger men across.

"Listen Jack. These are ma' three sons. We've been trying to track you down fur years, Jean an' me. Ah settled doon twenty years ago. Ah've goat two pubs in Glesca an' a wee hotel in Dumfries. There's a new life for ye son if ye want it. Ah'll teach ye the pub game an' get ye away fae a' this. Don't worry aboot that clown Telfer. He knows better than tae mess wi' me. What'd ye say?"

Life had not prepared Jack Donovan for anything like this. He struggled with anything approaching normal, human emotions. He wanted very much to believe this man. He wanted it so much, he decided to do it. Ten minutes later he was laughing and joking with his new found uncles and cousins.

"Efter we've had a few we'll go an' see Jean. She went to school wi' yir mother."

                                                         *************************

The phone rang and Telfer lifted it without speaking. ‘’They left the body in the street as a warning for any other smart bastard. He died looking forward to a reunion."

"Thanks George. I owe you one,"

THE SOLUTION

The half-empty bottle flew by his outstretched right arm and struck the post-box with such force, that most of it turned instantly to powder.

Simultaneously he heard a loud screech of brakes and, turning, he saw a small green car with two occupants.

Instinctively he dropped his two letters into the mouth of the box. What happened next was even more astonishing than the exploding bottle.

The nearside window of the car was rolled down and a ferret-faced youth glared at him from inside.  From beneath the baseball cap shoved back far on the cropped haircut, a thin reedy voice screamed.

"What the fuck are you staring at ya auld bastard?" The car door was thrust open and the youth was on the pavement next to him, breath reeking of cheap wine, his skinny features contorted in fury. He thrust his left hand into the pocket of his casual jacket and raised his right hand, encased in a filthy plaster, to within an inch of Bradbury’s face.

"Ah"ll rip the fuckin face right aff ye the noo ya clown"

Ronnie stared back at him dumbstruck. Fear clawed at the back of his throat and fluttered in the pit of his stomach.

He was well aware of how high-pitched and nervous his own voice sounded as he stammered.

"I, I wasn't looking at anybody son. I was only posting – ‘'

"If you're gonnae rip the auld bastard dae it noo wee man. Before the fuckin’ polis come." The other deeper voice came from the driver's seat of the car, the owner of it leaning over, his face hidden, obscured by the first youth. Just as Bradbury was considering his options a police car appeared in the distance as yet unaware that anything untoward was happening.

The first tormentor stood undecided before attempting to headbutt Ronnie, but narrowly missing. He clambered back into the vehicle, screaming through the still open window as the car sped off. "Next time ya auld cunt. Fuckin’ next time.’’

Bradbury poured himself a very stiff whisky and sat down to control his shaking legs. The walk back from the postbox had seemed endless, his mind racing, searching for a reason behind the sudden, unprovoked atack. Of course there was none. His two assailants were total strangers to him and he to them. That's just the way life was now. Particularly round here. Nothing changes, he thought to himself, and poured himself a second whisky. The first had been gulped down, burning the back of his throat, making him cough and splutter. He helped himself to a third and final but very generous measure and settled back in his comfortable armchair. What to do about it. That was the only issue now. He let his mind drift.

                                                            *******************

To be young and alive in late sixties Glasgow was an experience never to be forgotten, but to be just turned eighteen and Ronnie Bradbury, was very special. Bradbury was convinced he lived a charmed life and that same life would never, ever end. He was a top man and he revelled in the adulation that his reputation as a real hard case gave him. If his friends weren't talking to him, they were talking about him. About how he had sorted this one out or terrified that one. He was the "LEADER-OFF" of his local "team" and as such commanded respect from everyone who knew him well enough  even to be on speaking terms with him.The image he had of himself was that of the magnanimous gangster who always looked after his own, which, in all honesty, wasn't too far from the truth.

His life, and those of his mates, revolved round dance halls, where the pounding beat of the best "soul" music together with copious amounts of cheap wine and cider, mixed  with anything else they could get their hands on, ensured were suitably charged up to handle any rival teams who daft enough or "gemme" enough to mix it with them.

Impeccably dressed in their individually tailored mohair or tweed suits, hand-made shirts and smart haircuts they looked like gentlemen and behaved like animals. Conversely this outrageous behaviour acted as a turn on for some of the most glamourous and comfortably off girls who frequented the same haunts, searching for excitement. In fact some of them considered it a great honour to be seen out with a well known "face" or even carry or conceal his "blade" for him.

Added to this maelstrom of excitement were the wild all night or all week-end parties, punctuated by visits to the hospital to get "stitched" or just for running repairs, which were accepted as normal.

George Square, in the heart of the city, was where the late night Saturday and early morning Sunday buses left for the various outlying housing schemes, home for many of the different gangs which terrorised the city. There the violence reached fever pitch every Saturday night, invariably the scene of a very serious stabbing or worse. It was also the venue for well organised pitched gang battles which were sometimes pre-planned with an almost military precision. It was at the end of one of these that a number of things happened which had a profound effect on Bradbury and the rest of his life.

Ronnie stood taking to his friend and lieutenant Tony "Tich" Graham after the usual incidents which had really amounted to nothing more than scuffles that week. They stood yards apart from each other, one never looking directly at the other, talking out of the sides of their mouths about what they planned to do to this one or that one. This was not only to look hard but, as he realised years later, because they were constantly on the look-out for rival gangs. Their heads swivelled this way and that as they muttered their plans for their various adversaries. That night they didn't look well enough.

What appeared to be a Glasgow Corporation van, or something of that nature, mounted the pavement at other side of the square and stopped in front of one of many statues in the middle. As if everything was happening in slow motion Bradbury saw the ribbed back door of the van rattle open and about twenty youths pile out, everyone of  them carrying swords, hammers or axes.

"Fuck's sake", shouted Tich. "It's that bastard Docherty and his fucking crew!"

Those words were the last ones Ronnie heard for a long time.

Three months later Ronnie suddenly awoke from the coma induced by being stabbed and severely beaten that night.

His recuperation was a long, slow and painful process, but he had a great deal of help from the doctors and nursing staff who seemed to take a genuine liking to him and then set about doing their job with a great deal of skill and patience. It was then that he met Maggie.

She was without doubt the most beatiful girl he had ever met, with long black hair, soft 	brown eyes and a smile that lit up the ward and made him glad just to be alive. She was his physiotherapist and the love of his life. She was neither shocked nor impressed by the manner in which he'd arrived at the hospital and simply smiled at him and said, 
"My name's Maggie and I'm going to get you well again."

And she did. Within a very short space of time.

                                                           **********************

When Bradbury was finally released from hospital they went out a couple of times but she made it quite plain that she was in a relationship with someone at that time and could only offer friendship. Prior to being attacked Ronnie's reaction would have been to threaten his rival but she had already changed his way of thinking about a lot of things. She asked him to understand and to his amazement he did. He did so because her happiness was more important to him than his own was. She kissed him and cried and they parted.

Many years later they were re-united.

                                                           **********************

Bradbury roused himself from his reverie and glanced at his watch. She would be here soon. He had to make the phone call to Tich before she arrived. He might well be a pillar of the community now but he was still the only person Ronnie knew nowadays who could advise him on how best to handle a situation like the one which had taken place today. Tich was well aware of how Ronnie still had a constant struggle with wanting to revert to his old self and handle things the way he would have done when he was eighteen and a top man. This could all be sorted out with one phone call to Tich Graham.

He heard her key in the lock as he replaced the receiver. She flashed her truly beautiful smile and went straight into the kitchen with the shopping, intermittently humming or chattering as she put the groceries away. Where would he be without her? For the thousandth time he wondered how she explained the amount of time she spent here to her husband.

After a shower and changing his clothes he decided to tell her over the meal about the day's events. She didn't say anything until after he'd finshed eating and stood up to leave the table.

Looking very worried she fussed with his collar and asked the question he knew she would.  "Did you phone Archbishop Graham and tell him about it?"
Father Bradbury thanked his housekeeper for her concern, gave her his blessing, and went off to offer up evening mass for his two assailants as his long-term friend, now his spiritual adviser, had suggested.

Maggie settled down to watch the episode of "Eastenders" she’d missed earlier in the week.

CREDIT CONTROL

Malone closed the front door quietly and limped to the waiting taxi.

He had known the driver since childhood but neither acknowledged the fact. Pat Malone had never had any real friends and had accepted long ago that most people simply didn't like him.

It wasn't as though he hadn't tried. He had, on many, many occasions but rejection was a constant and had continued to besoover the forty odd years he'd tried so hard to fit in.

The ten year old who couldn't fit into the football team because of the limp - a result of childhood polio.

The spotty youth who wasn't bad looking but couldn't get girlfriends because he couldn't interact with people. He’d tried but had also developed a nervous stammer in his teens and he knew they sniggered as he struggled with the words. He took the easy way out and spoke only if he felt at ease, which he seldom did.

In adult life he only took jobs where he had as little contact with people as possible, although he was very good in his chosen field which was credit control. He was unfailingly polite, but firm when dealing with clients and the stammer disappeared, particularly on the telephone. Instinctively he knew the reason for that. _The fact that he was in control for a change and would get some sort of respect because of that fact. It would re-appear however the moment he got angry or upset.

He gave instructions to the taxi driver without too much difficulty and settled back in the seat with a little sigh of resignation. His destination had been telephoned earlier by his employer who had thanked him for giving up his Saturday evening to see a client. They both knew he lived alone and had nothing better to do with his time. The only date he had was with his television.

There he would sit with his lager and his crisps watching CilIa arrange blind dates between people who obviously have had  no trouble  whatsoever arranging their own. He hated that show but couldn't stop himself from watching it. Maybe one week he'd appear on it if they ever advertised for middle-aged, balding men, limps and stammers optional. He chuckled at his own joke. He did everything on his own.

Without a word Malone paid the taxi with the exact fare. Buttoning his cheap raincoat against the heavy rain he limped  across the street towards the brightly lit restaurant.

‘’W-would you please inform M-mr Russo that M-mr Malone is here", he stuttered placing his business card on the beautifully polished bar top. He felt very out of place in these opulent surroundings filled with relaxed, obviously comfortably off diners. The low hum of conversation had stopped abruptly as he entered in his sodden raincoat.

The glamorous girl behind the bar pointedly ignored him and continued her conversation with the suave looking man on the other side of it. Finally, her chin cupped in one hand, huge eyes adoringly fixed on the customer, she groped along the bar with the other for the business card. Still staring straight ahead she dragged it towards her.

"Coffee suppliers?" she said incredulously and her look said it all. She turned back to the customer and said sarcastically, ‘’I have important business to attend to here.  Phone me later?’’

She did buzz through to Mr. Russo however. Malone returned the card to his pocket.

                                                       *********************

The parrot cocked its head to one side and shuffled along the perch, first one way then the other. Malone knew it to be a scarlet macaw ,one of hundreds of different Psittaciformes originating from the tropics or southern hemisphere. He loved birds and himself had a small white budgerigar on which he doted.

Sometimes the budgie stammered too.

"Wait here," said the girl "He’s with the chef at the moment. He's very busy and doesn't have much time to spare.

Malone smiled at her shapely, retreating behind as she closed the office door and left him with the parrot.

                                                  **********************

"My God Pat. How long has it been? You're looking great. Late sixties early seventies eh? Fuck's sake that's over thirty years you old bastard. What'll you have? We had some times together back then didn't we? We were some fucking team. My wife used to fancy you, you know. Bet you never knew that. Asked me to introduce her to you. Said you never spoke to her. Never spoke to anyone did you? Anyway I was too busy trying to introduce something else to her. Know what I mean? Sit down, Sit down. You're with an old friend"

Malone watched the shifty, tubby little man as he busied himself with the drinks. The only thing Italian about him was his suit. He was a totally manufactured product.

"N-not f-for me. I never drink when I'm working. Tony sent me about the last consignment, Freddie"

Frederico Russo's beady little eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he flashed his best, oily grin.

"Fucking coffee, Pat? What's happening here? Just look around this place. Does he think I can't pay my fucking coffee bill?"

"It's about the little bag that was in the last consignment, Freddie. That was a mistake. A stupid error by a stupid person. It was a bigger mistake for you not to return it. You must come with me to explain why you didn't do that."

"Come with you? Where? I"m not going anywhere with you. I never liked you Nobody likes you, you fucking misfit. You cripple. I don't have much more time  to…”

"Y-you n-never spoke a truer word", said Malone producing the gun.

                                                    *************************

"No, I'm in his office using his phone giggled Shirley the glamorous barmaaid, "Nobody can hear us. You should be so lucky." She giggled again at the suggestive remark from the other end of the phone. "No, I don't think he'll be back tonight. Went out with that funny little man with the limp and the stutter. Didn't look very well."

"T-truer w-word" said the parrot.  “T-truer  w-w-word.”

"Stupid fucking bird" said Shirley.

BED AND BREAKFAST

Suddenly the door flew open and Charlie lurched in to stand there, long, gangly arms outstreched, head held back singing his own unique version of "WALTZING MATILDA".

"Fuck off Charlie. I'm knackered. I'll see you in the morning. I've got an early
appointment with my accountant."

Brady's irony was lost on the big scarecrow of a man who stood there, trousers at half-mast, wearing the only jacket he possessed, a black anorak of sorts, with capacious pockets. His filthy shirt  would have been worn for at least a week because Brady and Sammy knew that Charlie slept fully clothed. It was buttoned at the neck and a neatly knotted, filthy tie completed his attempt at sartorial elegance. The outstretched arms were suddenly thrust into the huge pockets and re-emerged, each huge, filthy hand clutching a cheap bottle of wine by the neck.

"Come on in big man. Ye're a fucking lifesaver."

As he rose from the side of the bed Brady neatly kicked his own half-empty bottle of very strong cider under it.

"Ah'm fuckin’ chokin'."

                                                         ***********************

They both knew the procedure. Turn-about swigs from the first bottle keeping the other in full view to constantly remind them that they had more. Brady had no conscience about his own hidden bottle. He would need that during the night. Besides he would get Charlie and their other pal Sammy a right good drink when his Giro came in on Tuesday.

Giro day was always a big day for all three of them. Every fortnight it would be at  least  one of the  three’s Giro days and they never let each other down. Giro day also made the preceding day almost bearable because although they would almost certainly be skint they could plan how much drink they would be able to buy the next day.

Charlie tapped the side of his nose and winked at Brady. His long, bony hands again disappeared into the pockets. His tobacco tin was thrown onto the bed along with a half-used toilet roll he'd nicked from somewhere, a tin of salmon, an alarm clock obviously new and still in its box and a net bag of tangerines. Charlie was an expert shoplifter. He just never had a clue what to nick. They'd given up trying to coach him long ago. He was an enigma. Brady had gone into the grotty shower they all shared one morning to find him underneath it fully clothed as always, to clean his his clothes. He then retired to his room, locked the door and stayed there for three days till they were dry. Or almost. However he timed this exactly to the three days before Brady’s forthcoming Giro

Brady's mood changed as soon as he saw the wine appear.

"Gie's a song big man."

They were half-way through the first bottle when Rita, the fat cow who occupied
the room next to Brady started.

"Try it. Jist you fuckin' try  it an ah'll get ma nephew roon the morra. He's no workin' an' if ah tell him whit you just called me he'll fuckin' kill ye, so he will."

Brady pushed Charlie back down onto the bed, took a quick swig of wine and quickly yanked open the bedroom door.

Two figures faced each other on the landing below. Rita the mouth and Alec the schizo; he clutching a claw hammer and a fistful of six-inch nails, she a bread knife.

"You know fine well Mr. Costa left me in charge ae that windae. Whit if there wis tae be a fire. He telt me ah'm in charge cause that's wur fire escape. Ye've goat tae huv an open windae. That's the law. How dae ye think ye see a' the rich folk wae therr windaes open a' the time. It's fur a fire escape. Shows how much you know dintit?"

"Fuck a' tae dae wi' it bein' a fire escape. It's tae let that scabby fat cat o' yours in an' oot so it can piss a' ower the place an' stink the fuckin' hoose oot. Wee John's frreezin' doon there in his sick bed an' ah'm gonnae nail it shut!"

It was mid-October and the house really was cold. Rita was that awful mixture that some people possess in their make-up. Extremely stupid and extremely cunning or as Brady put it, "a fly bastard."

He took a massive swig of wine and, suitably fortified, addressed his audience.

"If ye don't shut the fuck up the pair o' ye ah'll need tae go oot an' make a phone call.” Neither of these two had ever been brave enough to ask Brady who these phone calls would be made to, but he had long ago convinced them both that he knew some very dangerous people. This had undoubtedly been true at one time but no longer. Still, they didn't know that and it always worked.

"Shut the windae hen. It's freezin'. Bring your cat in first right enough. Alec, pit that hammer doon or ah'll show ye how tae use it. Rita pit the blade doon."

His little speech had the desired effect and Rita started to make the "puss-puss” noises to her cat. Alec wasn't happy but started to make his way back downstairs to Old John's room just as Sammy fell in the front door with blood streaming from a huge cut in his forehead.

***************
Once Brady had wiped most of the blood off Sammy's face he realised it wasn't as bad as he'd first thought. It definitely needed stitching but fuck it. It would heal itself eventually. He wrapped a filthy towel from the bathroom round his paralytic pal's head and thrust the wine bottle at him.

"Who dunnit?"

"Naebody. Ah fell ah think"

"Stupid auld fucker"

Brady pretended to remember the half-empty cider bottle under the bed. He'd noticed the full bottle of wine in Sammy's inside pocket.  Combined  he’d  have  enough  for  oblivion  

Downstairs old John was dying.

**********************
Old John had stayed there the longest of them all. One day he had simply decided there was no point in getting out of bed to get drunk when he could achieve the same end result by staying in bed and sending Alec for his carry-out. Besides he didn't want to take one of those fits he took outside. They frightened him. Sammy who knew about these things told him if he stopped drinking so much the fits would stop and he could go to the off-licence himself. Sammy as usual was only half right.

                                         **********************

Everybody knew Alec was robbing the old bastard blind as well as drinking all his money, but sod him. Sod both of them. Brady and the other two only ever went into the old sod's room for a “tap” or if they were desperate for a drink. The smell of urine was unbearable and it wasn't the cat's.

*************************
Tony Costa wasn't a bad guy really. He liked to think he was helping the less fortunate out with a roof over their heads which was true to some extent, but he was a business man after all, not a fucking philanthropist.

*************************
Two days later he opened the passenger door of the Merc. and let the young girl and her baby out, accidentally brushing his hand along her thigh as he reached for her suitcase.

"You'll soon settle in, Frances, and make friends with everyone. Just a pity the old gentleman had to die so suddenly but if he hadn't you and the baby wouldn't have had anywhere to stay now, would you?" She smiled nervously back at him and wondered what would have happened to her if the lady in the social hadn't known about this boarding house.

"Oh yes, you'll like them all, I'm sure. What do they do? Let me think now. Mr.Brady's a retired businessman, that's right, Charlie was a landscape gardner till his accident, Sammy used to be a male nurse. Alec and Rita are both convalescing. They've both been really  quite ill you know. Here we are now. Where's my keys. They're not a bad lot you know.  Friendly.”

*************************
Inside Alec counted the money he’d stolen from Old John. Brady and Sammy were trying to kill each other as Charlie watched. Rita lay on top of her bed stroking her cat with one hand, and the bread knife with the other.

MEMBERS ONLY

James Warrington-Clarke moved closer to the roaring fire and gazed appreciatively at each of his fellow members in turn. He knew he would probably never be in the position where he would be able to repay any of them properly but it felt good to be once more solvent ,and willing to try. They were the ones who had chosen to stand by him during the trials and tribulations of the last few, very difficult, months. It was they who had been prepared to put up with his idiosyncracies, his foibles and his fits of temper as he railed against the outright injustice of it all. They had supported him financially and in all the many other ways that real friends do when times are tough and the chips are most definitely down. It had  only been  with the  benefit  of  their sage advice that   he  had avoided  taking the drastic course of action he had vowed to take on so many an occasion. It had proven conclusively to him that which, deep down, he had really known all along  anyway. Friendship, real friendship, is something to be valued above all else and money, although still very necessary, isn't everything. If these three had not stuck by him he might now very well be dead. The option of making the ultimate sacrifice had been comsidered many, many times. His friends, however, had always been there to listen and to tell him that it was not something even to be considered. They would help as much as they possibly could until the situation resolved itself and he was, once more, back on his feet. And they had been as good as their word. They had strongly advised against direct confontation, pointing out with all their knowledge of the ways of the world, that any such action would only serve to worsen the financial quagmire he was in at the time and from which there seemed no way out.

Thank God he had listened to them, as it had been sound advice and he had received confirmation of that this very morning. His financial situation was now on the way to sorting itself out, and he was very glad indeed that he had heeded their wise counsel. He had often asked himself the question whether he would have been as understanding had it been one of them in a similar mess. Somehow, he doubted that.

James stared fondly at each of them in turn. Good old Charlie he'd known for years. Charlie had been the one who had persuaded him to join the club in the first place. He had stuck his neck out and acted as a kind of sponsor as they were very selective about proposed new members. The other members had behaved impeccably towards him during his recent difficulties thus proving their policy   concerning  prospective  members to be the correct one. This club only allowed the right sort of people even to be considered for membership.

                                              ***********************

He'd bumped into Charlie in town one day and, over a drink, they’d caught up on old times. He'd gone all through school with Charlie and had been amazed to learn that, years later, his old school chum had actually ended up teaching there for a while. Ill health had forced him into early retirement and nowadays he was more or less content to let life happen to him rather than be one of life's all too numerous movers and shakers. Perhaps if Warrington-Clarke hadn't been quite so preoccupied with his own problems he might have taken more notice of his old pal's gaunt appearance and been a little more concerned about him. Now that he knew for a fact that Charlie was dying it made it all the more remarkable that he had taken time to listen to James's problems in the first place. But he had. Looking back he was embarrassed to remember how much of that afternoon he had spent wittering on about what, at that time, he had considered to be no more than a financial hiccup. A mere blip on his otherwise steady - and not inconsiderable - income. Little had he suspected that the next official document he was to receive about the matter would be the bombshell it had turned out to be. Anyway the upshot of it was that they both ended up rather pissed that day, and the next morning all James could remember was Charlie insisting that he come along to his club one day and meet his two closest friends. Warrington-Clarke excepted of course.

Nursing a brute of a hangover he had struggled to remember the exact location of the club and then he remembered Charlie had scribbled it down on a scrap of paper and stuck it into his raincoat pocket. His old friend had explained that, as he and his other two friends were now virtually retired, they could only meet on very specific dates for personal reasons. That Tuesday had been one of those dates. He really should have been showing his face at the office that day but he was sure they could manage without him, and he was in no mood to listen to his financial adviser droning on and pushing even more paper at him. Sign this, sign that. Maybe he'd phone later to see if there was anything that needed his signature urgently. Maybe not. He paid the little shit's salary after all. He was beginning to wonder why. No; tomorrow would be time enough. He'd visit Charlie's club and meet his friends.

Relax over a leisurely couple of drinks. There had never been any reason to regret making that decision. Very quickly his membership had been proposed, seconded and accepted. No longer did he feel alone. He had found sanctuary.

Warrington-Clarke's gaze moved on from Charlie - who looked particularly unwell that morning - and came to rest on Raymond the one time whizz kid of banking circles. Raymond was the youngest of the four of them but strangely the wisest concerning the financial mess James had found himself to be in shortly after their first meeting. He certainly had known what he was talking about when it came to dealing with officialdom and law. It had been Raymond who counselled restraint all along the way, particularly in James's dealings with the various government bodies. Give it time and then play your trump card right at the last moment. Then, and only then, start the appeal process He had been spot on.

Then there was Anthony. Tony to the other three. As Anthony his skill as one of Scotland's top surgeons, before retirement, had been legendary. That had been in the days when, sporting the distinguished goatee beard, he had been a media darling. Nowadays he favoured the fuller, bushier kind. When James had been at his lowest ebb and foolishly talked about slitting his wrists, Tony had explained exactly what that would entail. The notion soon left him. Tony had his own problems with a son who needed constant care and certain drugs just to keep him alive. His matter of fact approach to James's suicide talk had been designed to make him realise just how selfish that kind of talk was. Tony had been proved correct also as today's celebration would demonstrate.

What would he have done without them? All three of them.

************************************************

"Somebody better go wi' him an' make sure be disnae fuck off wi' the money,” coughed Charlie.

"No' him. He'll waant money aff him fur smack fur that daft boy o’ his,"  said Raymond pointing at Tony.

"Jist sumbuddy  go  an’ git the fuckin’ drink. I'm dying here," said Tony wearily.

James Warrington-Clarke, trying vainly to stop the shakes and tremors, hunched closer to the bonfire and produced the Giro from his filthy raincoat pocket.

RIOT

"You 'll no' need tae bother aboot starting anything. It'll be done fur ye. Stand on me. He'll go doon this time. Big style. There's at least three plain clothes in this dance hall tonight. The polis want him bad an' the wiy it's been set up they'll get him. Noo drink  yir fucking lager. Ah've never let ye doon yit huv Ah?"

Garvie handed his expensive leather coat to the admiring female barmaid, nodded his best gangster nod to her, and adjusted his already perfectly knotted silk tie in the large wall mirror behind her. It was imperative that he be immaculately dressed at all times or he might lose a little face with the well known Glasgow  gang he was in command of. He'd fought for the right to be called their “leader off”, both with rival gangs and sometimes with ambitious members of his own gang, who'd dared to challenge his authority over the years. There had been some real hard cases amongst that lot, but Garvie had taken care of every last one and now nobody questioned his undoubted courage and loyalty. In street fights and pub and dance hall brawls he was always well to the fore, arms and legs flailing, head butting and sword or hatchet flashing when required. In dance halls the bands would continue uninterrupted while the mayhem went on all around them so that the riot itself seemed somehow part of the entertainment. Early seventies Glasgow was like that.

"Ye'd better be fuckin' right wee man. Ah want him aff the streets. He's startin' tae be a right pain in the arse. If the polis don't lift him ah'll make sure the ambulance men dae."

"Don't you take anythin' tae dae wi' it. Ah'm tellin' ye, ah've set it up so he'll get himsel’ liftit. Him an' that shower o' tossers he calls a team."

                                                      ********************

Maxie was Rab Garvie's second in command and master tactician. Brave as a lion and intensely loyal he could be relied upon in every situation. He stopped just short of Garvie's fighting capability. But not much. He had been Garvie's main rival for leadership at one time and had given Rab the hardest fight of his life. Neither were too keen on a return bout. Particularly Garvie, strangely enough, because he had a sneaking suspicion he might lose it. For some inexplicable reason he had always felt that Maxie held a bit back in that fight. Nowadays it was never discussed and Maxie was actually engaged to Rab's young sister Marie. Removing his stylish navy gaberdine raincoat,  Maxie handed it to the same barmaid. Both then turned at the same time to stare out the forty strong gang ranged along the opposite side of the dance hall, reserving their derision for the powerfully built, bull necked  youth who stood, hands in pockets, eyes staring wildly at the two people he hated most on the planet. Andy Brannigan had many enemies but none he hated with the intensity he reserved for Garvie and Maxie. What were they doing coming in here alone? Brannigan's intellect was not his strongest asset. THAT was his undoubted fighting ability. That and his machete.

<><><><>

"It's Marie for Maxie," called the barmaid from the other end of the crowded bar waving to Garvie that his young sister wanted to speak to her husband to be, and not her older brother, on the phone behind the bar. Ellen, the barmaid, fancied Garvie like mad but it certainly wasn't mutual.

"Mair fuckin' orders fur ye wee man. Ah've telt ye afore. Yir gonnae end up wi' slippers an' a pipe when she gits ye doon that aisle. Henpecked. Onywiys this is nothin' tae dae wi' her noo. It's between me an' that fat bastard Brannigan. Fuckin' cheek! Tryin' tae chat ma wee sister up. Ah've a good mind jist tae go ower an' gie him a slap the noo." Garvie didn't turn round when speaking from the side of his mouth .

"She worries Rab. In case somethin' happens tae ma' perfect body afore we git merrit."

Garvie turned to stare at Maxie sharply. He was fiercely protective of his young sister and disapproved of any suggestive talk, even from her husband to be. Maxie just grinned and went to answer the phone. Garvie folded his immaculately suited arms and leant back against the bar to continue staring contemptuously at Brannigan.

<><><><>

"Listen hen. Ah know fine well whit ah'm daein.' Big Rab trusts me so jist you dae the same. Wan wiy or anither Brannigan's gonnae start somethin' an' he'll no' walk oot ae here the night. It's Brannigan the polis ur eftir the noo an' they know there's only the two ae us in here the night. There's aboot forty o' thae bastarts. So if anythin' starts it's them that'll get lifted. Rab's staunin' starin' them a' doon the noo. Ye know whit he's like. Fucking crackers! Wait tae the music starts. The polis ur everywhere by the way."

Maxie chuckled and put the phone back on the receiver.

<<><><>

"Right Ellen. Get yirsel' a drink. Ye're sure he's goat the request slips fur thae two songs an' he knows whit tae say before he plays them. 'Cos he looks a right fuckin' eejit!" Maxie handed the fiver to the barmaid and inclined his head in the direction of the long haired, hippy clad DJ with the fluffy beard and the English accent, at the other end of the crowded bar. Maxie and Garvie with their cropped haircuts and immaculately tailored suits despised his type.

"Oh, Clive's alright. He's a very good DJ. He'll play them alright. Along with the request. Just the way you've written it down. Is that another new suit Rab's wearing?"

"Probably. Just make sure he plays the request at the interval when the band takes a break."

<><><><>

Even although Ellen knew Garvie and Maxie were both mental she was still very surprised by the audacity of it all. As the exceptionally good soul band trooped from the stage, sweating heavily and to thunderous applause, Clive took his seat on the podium looking very much under the influence of some chemical or other as always, and started his set as he usually did. With the peaceful "Albatross" by Fleetwood Mac to settle the crowd. Maxie put his hand on Rab's shoulder and shouted into his ear above the still noisy crowd.

"Gie him five or ten minutes tae he starts daein' the requests Ellen says."

"He looks as if he's in a different fuckin' time zone fae us. Ah hope you know whit ye're daein' wi' that clown. Ah widnae SEND him fur a message, never mind gie him wan tae dae."

"It'll a' work oot fine. Ellen telt me at the bar she's spotted at least seven polis in here that she knows for sure. Ah've only seen three but she's goat a better view back therr'."

"Snow White an' the Seven Dwarfs," muttered Garvie. He disapproved  strongly  of Ellen and her generous ways with her ample charms.

As some of the crowd began to become affectionate with each other to the haunting "Hey Jude" by The Beatles Clive lowered the volume slightly and head inclined to one side said very softly into the microphone.

"After the next track ladies and gentlemen, I've got the request spot as usual. Listen out for your name now. You may well be in there. Who knows?"

"Here we go Rab," hissed Maxie

<><><><>

Being from Somerset and fairly new to both Glasgow and its underlying, festering gang culture Clive was totally unaware of the fact that the first track he played was the official battle anthem of Rab and Maxie's notably absent cohorts. The volume was deafening as Creedence Clearwater Revival belted out "Bad Moon Rising" with its unmistakeable opening guitar chords. The dance hall fell deathly silent when Clive, as instructed, hit full power at the  precise moment where John Fogerty, the  band’s superb lead vocalist, sang, "Hope you are quite prepared to die!" On the opposite side of the dance hall spaces appeared as if by magic as chairs were pushed back suddenly and forty or so youths began to congregate around Andy Brannigan. But Rab and Maxie simply stood there, arms folded, both grinning broadly, directly at Brannigan. They still had the other request  to look forward to. 

<><><><>

"And now ladies and gentlemen it's time for me to play your requests. The tracks that mean so much to you because they mean so much to someone else. I know that as always your choice will be very apt and much better than anything I would select on your behalf. Glasgow audiences really know their music. And the first one out of the hat is for….". There was a long pause as Clive adjusted his seat and pretended to rummage about in the “request box” which happened to be an old biscuit tin. He had his orders and knew exactly what to say. What he didn't know was why! So he improvised.

"This one's going out for Andy Brannigan and the splendid work he does for the girls club he runs. It appears that Andy has quite a few of the girls in the hall with him tonight and Rab and Maxie want to wish him and all his girls continued success in their favourite pastime. Way too strenuous for me, girls. Any way, here we go especially for Andy and all his girls. Enjoy! Here come the Spencer Davis Group with. "Keep On Running!"

That was exactly the moment the bottles and chairs started flying and something smashed the huge ornamental mirror behind the bar to smithereens.
 
<><><><>

Currie removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and replaced them. In all his years as a Detective Inspector with Glasgow police he had seen many gang fights and pitched battles involving the major gangs. He had been involved in some as a younger policeman and had witnessed some horrendous violence. He had to admit however that the mayhem and  destruction  Brannigan and his outfit had been responsible for equalled anything in his previous experience. Leaning back in his chair he stared hard at the teenage gangster as though trying to comprehend his stupidity.

"You know it will be a long time before your friends see you again this time. A very long time. If the barmaid hadn't stopped the bleeding and kept it stopped till the ambulance arrived, he would have died. Attempted murder. Because you fancy his sister. You've got shit for brains you people. Shit!"

"Fuck him. He's been swannin' aboot Glesga fur years as if he is somethin'. Ah showed him whit he is. Fuckin' nothin'. Ah've been waitin' tae get that bastart fur years. If it hidnae been fur his sister Ah wid huv done him years ago. She's goat nae life because o' him. Cannae talk tae naebuddy nor nuthin'. Shows ye how clever he is. Walkin' intae team trouble  ‘cos  Ah  telt  ‘im  tae.  Fuckin’  eejit! The wee trick wae the music hid nuthin' tae dae wi' it. The minute ah saw him withoot the rest o' the team the night “AH” knew he wis gettin' it ."

"But you knew we were in the hall. How did you expect to get out? Even I didn't think you would be stupid enough to start anything when you saw us. That's why you'll never make it as a gangster son. Too fucking stupid."

"Showed him onywiy. He'll nivvver raise his hands tae Marie again the bastart. Nivvver!"

"Let's go Maxie. Don't be in a rush. You've got plenty of time."

A  SMALL WORLD

"Small world isn't it Davie? At the moment it consists of you, me, and this fucking room. Oh and the Dandy Lad here. Keeps himself nice and smart doesn't he? He could be a real ladykiller could the Dandy Lad. If he was interested in the ladies that is. But he only seems to be interested in hurting people who've upset me. And you've upset me a great deal Davie. Now what am I going to do about it? That's the thing. What am I going to do about? I know what HE wants to do about it. One track mind has the Dandy Lad. His name's Raymond by the way. I think it's important you know that. A man's entitled to know the name of the man who's going to put him in intensive care."

Davie gripped his pint glass tightly, terrified to glance up from the racing section of his newspaper. Today of all days. Another week and he and Irene would have  the money. It wasn't her fault her redundancy cheque was late. She'd taken the kids to her mother's  in order to go and see about it again this morning. She was due to meet him here at any moment. After her cleaning job at the priest's house.
"Ah'll need tae ask ye fur another week Mr. Gibson. Ye see mah wife's due…"
 "Shut fucking up. You've had all the time you're getting. You owe me four hundred quid and that's a lot of broken bones. And you're sitting here drinking fucking beer. No more time you little shit. A lesson now. Outside."

Petrified with fear, Davie sat on his hands to stop them trembling and tried to catch a breath. Eventually he summoned just enough courage to look up and immediately wished he hadn't. Everybody had heard about Gibson's enforcer but those who had been unfortunate enough to meet him never, ever spoke about it. Now he knew why! Davie Sneddon had known and lived with fear most of his life. Certain areas of Glasgow have that effect on people but this guy was something else again. A small and very thin man, he positively radiated evil. Pale green eyes glared at Davie from beneath a livid, purple scar running from his closely cropped hair to his left eyebrow. Deathly pale, with a perfectly groomed goatee beard he might well be most people's conception of Satan himself. He was immaculately dressed in an obviously very expensive leather jacket and perfectly tailored jeans. When he spoke it became clear that the Devil originated from Ireland.

"We'll be after taking a walk then."

His voice was surprisingly low and soft which somehow had the effect of making him all the more menacing. His left hand stroked at the little beard, the right ominously and obviously holding something very sharp in the right hand jacket pocket. It was the typical blade man stance. Absolutely no point in trying to explain to the moneylender and his "tally man" that he'd only borrowed the money to give his two kids a good Christmas and that it hadn't been meant to end up like this. What a fucking mess.

That was when the pub door opened and Irene came in. Followed by two nuns with collection cans.

*******************

"I know it's difficult Irene," Father Brady's voice sounded weary over the telephone, "but you really must try to calm down a little. For the childrens sake. So he's in intensive care and the police have just left? I'll be there in ten minutes."

                                                       **********************

When Irene opened the door to her parish priest she was obviously still very much in shock. Alone in the Sneddons' modest council flat the priest searched for the right words to console the pretty young wife and mother of two. He couldn't find them, so asked her if she wanted him to make her some tea. She shook her head and continued to dab her eyes with the sodden handkerchief. Suddenly she spoke in monotone as if unaware there was anyone else in the room.

"He only went to see that man because my redundancy cheque was late arriving and he wanted to give the kids their usual Christmas. Now look what's happened. It's not as if it was even his fault." She suddenly fell silent and raised her eyes to the ceiling as though seeking an answer from above.

"It's no one's fault," said the little priest softly. "Now tell me about the two nuns. What exactly happened?"

<><><><>

After leaving Irene's house the little priest visited the hospital and then headed straight for the local police station to see Sergeant Connell, who was also one of his parishioners.

"And that's all she could tell me Bob. Apparently when he refused to come across with any money the enforcer went berserk and produced whatever sharp instrument it was he used and I've just been to see the result. Something really has to be done about these people. And poor Sister Veronica. And of course Sister Theresa."

"I know Father, but we really won't make a great deal of difference if people continue to use loan sharks. It was a Stanley knife incidentally."

The little priest looked slightly bemused for a second and then realised the Sergeant was referring to the weapon used.

"Yes. A very nasty man  is the Dandy Lad. No one seems to know who gave him the nickname. Apparently his real name is Raymond something or other. Now tell me about Sister Veronica," said Connell.

The little priest seemed lost in thought for a second. At last this horrific wounding was starting to make some sort of evil sense. A perverted kind of logic.

<><><><>

"So at least you now know why it happened that way Irene. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. Nothing at all. Just be grateful that Davie is unharmed. I think I hear them coming now."

The front door flew open and Davie Sneddon entered with two giggling children clutching bags of sweets.

"The Father's just been telling me he thinks he knows the reason why that horrible man attacked that other horrible man and not you Davie. Tell him Father."

Davie playfully pushed one of his children to one side and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

"God help the poor sister Davie. I must see her as soon as possible. I only know this through a conversation we had some time ago. She loves her family back home in Ireland dearly and mentions them all by name whenever we speak. There was one thing that troubled her greatly however. A brother who disappeared during the troubles. They had always been very close as children and she would refer to him as Raymond. A "dandy wee lad" she would say. This incident is obviously down to the fact that Gibson's heavy is none other than Raymond himself. You say that Gibson not only refused to put a few pennies in the collecting cans he also pushed the nun to one side. The other man then slashed his face. Is that correct Davie? Raymond, it would appear, is none other than Sister Veronica's long lost brother. God help everyone concerned in this sorry mess."

"But Father surely the Sister could have identified her brother as the man who attacked Gibson. If he isn't caught this man could kill somebody next. She must identify him to the police." Irene was still in a state over the whole affair and her voice was shrill.

"God knows what happened to this man to turn him into this kind of animal, Irene, but he obviously recognised his older sister, and was not going to stand for her being pushed around. In some twisted way he must have thought he was doing the right thing."

"I don't care Father. He can't get away with this. She must identify him. She must."

“Not just as simple as that, Irene. Sister Veronica's been going blind for many years now and is now totally so. She had no idea she was anywhere near her long lost brother. I will have to tell her of course.  Won’t  I?”

Suddenly Irene felt more confused than ever.

“Ticket” Tales

Written by Liam Leddy